


What's Normal, Again?

by Never_Out_Of_Style, Poetoaster



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Addiction, Apologies, Arguing, Awkward Conversations, Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Freeform, Episode: s06e17 Normal Again, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Heaven vs Hell, POV Buffy Summers, Resolution, Resurrection, Suicidal Thoughts, Sunnydale (BtVS), The Scooby Gang (BtVS)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:49:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Out_Of_Style/pseuds/Never_Out_Of_Style, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetoaster/pseuds/Poetoaster
Summary: Buffy's recovering, Willow's fretting, and Xander's brooding. Spike's nowhere to be found, and that's never a good sign. Can the Scooby Gang really go back to the way things were before? And what does that even mean? What IS normal, again?Takes place directly after the events of season 6 episode 17, "Normal Again."





	1. Willow

Willow paused mid-pour when she heard the telltale swishing of a leather jacket near the door.

She finished mixing in the ground nettle before looking up, dusting off her hands on the hello kitty apron she was wearing per Dawn’s insistence. “Spike? Is that you?”

“Bloody hell, woman,” he muttered as way of response, coming out of hiding and into her view. “Ears like a bat, have you? Shoulda known better than to sneak up on a witch. Damn this chip. Can’t bite, lost my touch sneaking up on people . . . ”

Willow was tempted to laugh. He still walked around everywhere he went like he owned the place, and though he was never one to shy away from complaining about the chip’s essential vampire castration function, sometimes it seemed he was least aware of all of how adorably pathetic he could be.

She settled for a sigh instead, returning her attention to the antidote that had now reached a rolling boil. “I’m kinda busy right now, Spike. Is there something you want?”

He leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow and licking his lips. “Loads of things I want.”

He reached into his pocket for his pack of smokes, holding the chosen cigarette between his teeth when Willow smacked the lighter out of his hand at the very moment he was set to ignite it. He glared and made to pick it up off the ground when she pointed at the “NO SMOKING IN THE LAB” sign behind him.   

“Last time you asked me for favor, you kidnapped and threatened me, Cordelia got impaled, and hey, let’s not forget that my boyfriend broke up with me--which was _not_ a favor at the time,” she added when he attempted to interrupt. “So before you go on, let me go ahead and give you a preemptive _no_.”

“So that’s it, then?” Spike gestured at the potion and the small army of supplies surrounding her with a scowl, his lips pursed and hollow cheeks set as if he’d just unwittingly licked a lemon. “You’ll settle for being the wizard’s apprentice? Shall we get you a nice blue number with stars and some white gloves?”

Willow raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about, Spike?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen _Fantasia_. Bloody classic.” He grabbed the broom resting against the wall and rocked it back and forth in some kind of frenzied tap-dance.

Willow bit back a smile, unwilling to let him have the upper hand. “No, I get the reference, Spike. I mean, _what are you talking about_?”

Spike sauntered over closer to her until their noses were mere centimeters from touching. His eyes flashed, and Willow caught a glimpse of the vampire who’d held a broken glass bottle to her head and made her cry, whose teeth later gnashed and bruised the flesh of her neck though his fangs failed to emerge. He had been dangerous once, and she helpless.

She shuddered, momentarily frozen in place while he smirked at her.

“This,” he said, screwing his finger into his temple. “This is my leash, my ball and chain. The thing that’s holding me back from being what I really am. What’s your excuse, love? Did the Initiative get you, too? Sneak you off when the big, bad Slayer had her back turned and plant a little chip inside of that lovely red head?”

He reached out to stroke her hair when she regained her senses and jerked away from his touch.  

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Spike, but if it’s about the magic,” she deflated at saying _that word_ , the sag of her shoulders barely perceptible as she continued, “Then you already know why. I don’t need to remind you about my not-so-accidental magical mishaps, _Randy Giles_.”

Spike shook his head and offered a long-suffering groan. “No one should make you feel sorry for who you are, Red. Least of all the Slayer and her band of worthless cronies.”

“Buffy really didn’t have anything to do with it.” She realized she had been neglecting her concoction and hurried to turn down the heat seconds before it boiled over. “It was Tara. I loved her more than what I was doing, even if I didn’t realize it right away. Things are better now.”

Spike laughed. “You call this better? You’re not sorry for what you did. You’re sorry you got caught, red-handed and all. I can tell.”

“If I wasn’t sorry, then you can bet I wouldn’t be here, working in the stupid chem lab.” She groused, fighting the urge to throw up in her hands in rage. “This potion would take me two seconds. Believe me, I’m not one for the patience. Not like I used to be anyway.”

“That’s what I mean, Red. I know you can feel it. The power, it’s burning you up like a poison inside. And here you are, lurking in the shadows, tail between your legs, all hunched over like, afraid to even hold on to one of the ingredients for too long like it’ll make you sprout horns or something,” he snatched up one of her vials and shook it in front of her face. “This isn’t you. Break out of your cage!”

She could feel the energy between them sparking, and she knew he could feel it, too.  

“Maybe--maybe if I had listened to Tara sooner, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now. Actually, you know what, Spike?” She wrenched the vial from his hands and slammed it back down on the table. “If you had done _your job_ and made sure Buffy took the antidote the first time like I asked you, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now.”

“Right,” Spike scoffed, backing away with a contemptuous smile. “You scoobies are always down for a rousing round of kick the Spike.”

“Stop playing the victim,” Willow snapped. “Why did you leave? I saw the trashcan full of the antidote. She must have dumped it right after you left. Then she went straight from zero to homicidal in five seconds. We could have all been killed.”

Spike shrugged. “Evil, remember? It’s a right shame that you didn’t all die. Would’ve served the lot of you right for how you treat each other. And me,” he added as a smug afterthought.

“Whatever,” Willow rolled her eyes and turned deliberately from him. “If you’re not here to help, then leave me alone. I need to focus.”

“Hope you know what you’re doing, pet,” Spike said. “I’ve seen this potion go wrong a few times in my day. Nasty business. I know a thing or two about torture, but this--this was something else.”

Willow gritted her teeth, trying hard not to dwell on what he’d said. “Spike, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll--I’ll punch you in the mouth. I may not hit like Buffy, but I swear I’ll make it hurt as much as I can, and if you think I care that you can’t hit me back, you’re wrong.”

Spike’s eyes flashed and his nose flared before his expression abruptly softened.

“We both know you’re capable of a lot more than that,” he sneered through his upturned lip. His jacket whipped furiously behind him as he left, almost as if it were a direct extension of his emotions.

“Uh, Spike?” Tara asked moments before he crashed into her on his way to the exit.

“Oh good. Glinda the good witch, showed up to save us all.” He provided a mocking bow before making his way around her.   

Tara blinked once and then shook her head, amused. Her smile fell when she saw the stony expression on Willow’s face.

“Willow, what’s wrong?” she asked, just managing to stop herself from saying ‘baby’. Old habits (and feelings) die hard, as they say. She shook her head discretely to clear it.

“Nothing,” Willow muttered, turning off the heat under the potion. She brushed a stray hair off of her sweat-sticky forehead and stood back to admire her work with a satisfied huff. “Everything I can do is finished. Did you find the rest of the ingredients ok at the magic shop?”

Tara nodded, holding up the somewhat crumpled paper bag with a cheerful smile. “Navigating that shop is like riding a bike. Some things you just never forget.” She set it down on the table and turned pointedly to Willow. “So, you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Willow let out a long, drawn-out, extremely-dramatic-yet-appropriate-to-the-circumstances sigh.

She herself couldn’t place exactly why it was that was she so angry at Spike. Normally, Xander and Buffy gave him sufficient (and beyond) grief that she never felt the need to throw anything his way. In fact, if she was being honest, she felt sorry for him most of the time. Not so sorry that she wanted to spend any extended period of time with him, or do anything that might potentially alleviate his misery, but sorry all the same.

“I had a conversation with Spike right before you came in,” Willow admitted, not sure why she felt like she should whisper saying it. Spike was the one boy in the class who was universally acknowledged as having cooties. He could come on missions, save your life even; but hang out with him too long, and you might get some vampire on you.

“Spike’s come a long way since becoming an unofficial scooby,” Tara acknowledged thoughtfully, taking out a baggie of ground black powder from the bag and sprinkling it over Willow’s potion. It began to hiss and froth under her careful ministrations. “But he doesn’t refrain from saying unkind things.”  

“It wasn’t so much unkind as, um, provoking?” Willow frowned as she pictured their conversation in her head, picking out his facial expressions in her mind, the subtle turns of his head so she could analyze them. “Like he was hoping he could get me to do something bad. And I have no idea why he would want to do that. He was so adamant, and for what? I guess I’m more unnerved than mad.”

The two shared a private smile.

“‘It’s good to label our emotions for what they really are’,” Willow sing-songed in her best imitation of Tara’s voice.

Tara giggled. Willow couldn’t help but grin in return. Tara’s laugh was rich, warm, and feathery, much like Tara herself; it had been ages since Willow had heard her laugh and doing so now felt vaguely self-indulgent, almost intimate. Almost.

“This is the last ingredient,” Tara informed her once she had recovered from her laughter, wiping at the tears gathering at the edges of her eyes. The antidote had turned the thick black Willow remembered from when she had first concocted it, but it looked smoother and darker, almost like glass, with the signature shimmer of a witch’s magic.

Willow hesitated. “Tara, can I ask you something?”

Tara poured the antidote into the mug Willow had grabbed earlier from the kitchen. It changed color when you poured hot water in it, and Willow was pretty sure that she had given it several years prior to Dawn as a Christmas gift. She was amazed that of all things, it somehow possessed the constitution to survive the constant onslaught of property destruction at the Summers’ residence.

“You can ask me anything, Wil,” Tara’s eyes twinkled.

The pleasure at hearing Tara call her by her nickname drove tingles down Willow’s spine. She could only hope she wasn’t being too obvious.

“Earlier, Spike said something about this antidote making Buffy suffer if we didn’t do it right. I mean, everyone who wants sane-Buffy back at any cost raise your hand,” Willow paused to raise her hand and waited for Tara to do the same. “Looks like the vote is unanimous. So . . . not that I don’t trust you, b-because I do, obviously, of course, duh, but um, it’s not true, is it?”

“He wanted you to do magic, didn’t he?” Tara’s expression hardened. It was unusual to see her upset, but when it happened, so much for the subtle.

“Yeah,” Willow admitted, her face flushing red with shame. “He did. But I didn’t do it! I wasn’t even tempted! Not even a little!”

Tara gave her a look that caused her to crumble. “Ok, so maybe I was tempted,” she confessed.

Tara closed her eyes and inhaled. “I’m sorry, I-I’m not mad at you. I-I just don’t know why Spike would do such a thing. Well, that’s not true. I do know why.”

“I don’t know why Buffy keeps him around,” Willow said as way of agreement. “I mean, sure, he’s stronger than some of us, which is probably helpful for patrol or whatever, but . . . did I say something wrong?”

Tara quickly disguised the betraying expression off her face. She wanted to tell Willow, she did; Willow and Buffy (as she had been told many times by many different parties) were supposed to be best friends. But it wasn’t Tara’s secret to tell, not yet, anyway, and the timing didn’t feel right.

“You probably noticed yourself that this antidote is a basic potion. It would be almost harder to mess it up than to do it right. But either way, this book you found with the information about the Glarghk Guhl Kashmas’nik demon?” She pointed to the image of the waxy-skinned demon next to the directions for brewing the antidote and flipped the page. “It says that all neurological symptoms subside within a few hours of administration in the antidote. Residual flu-like symptoms may be observed in victims for up to five days.”

“Buffy does have a history of overdoing it with the flu, but the flu is something we can handle,” Willow said, relief evident in her voice.

Tara held her finger to her nose. “Nose goes on calling in sick to her boss!”

“Ugh, whatever,” Willow grumbled, giving Tara a playful shove. “I’ll make Xander do it.”

“Good luck with that!” She winked, taking the mug in one hand and patting Willow’s shoulder with the other. “Shall we go upstairs and make sure Buffy hasn’t woken up and gone on a murderous rampage?”

“It’s a date!” Willow said brightly.

_******************************************************_

Willow shivered as she and Tara walked into Buffy’s room. All the windows were flung open, letting in the uncharacteristically chilly air. She shared a tense glance with Xander, whose twisted posture seemed to uncoil slightly when he caught sight of her, though his facial expression remained blank; knowing him, he was probably on the verge of an angry breakdown, but for the moment, at least, he was still in control.

Dawn stood hunched in the corner, her hands twisted deep into her pockets and head bowed. Her eyes were red and glassy underneath the locks of hair that had fallen and gathered in front of her, but she seemed to have pulled herself together some moments before, as her face was clear of tears. She stood up immediately and seized Tara’s arm as way of greeting, squeezing it once before dropping back into her original stooped position.     

Buffy lay in the middle of the bed, where, though she was the centerpiece of the room, no one but Tara seemed to be able to look at her directly. Her forehead was dry, but Willow could see the graininess of dried sweat peppered along her hairline, the wisps of hair around her ears winding into curls. Someone had draped a thin Winnie the Pooh themed sheet across her body, and underneath it, she was shaking.

“How long has she been like this?” Tara asked with concern, bustling past all of them to sit next to her on the bed. She laid a hand on Buffy’s forehead and pursed her lips.

“We gave her some ibuprofen a while ago, but her temperature keeps climbing,” Dawn responded with distress, her voice wavering somewhere between a forced calm and total hysteria. “She’s at 105 degrees right now. I would give her a second dose, but I didn’t think I should attempt to give her anything by mouth. Except the antidote, of course. Do you think we should take her to the hospital?”

“No,” Tara reached for the sheets, pulling them up higher on Buffy and tucking the corners behind her shoulders. “There’s not much they’d be able to do for her in this situation. I say we give her the antidote first and see if that helps. If not, we can try an ice bath, and after that, we can head over to the hospital. I think the antidote will help a lot, though.”

“Speaking of the antidote, what took you so long? Did it explode on you again, Willow?” Dawn asked innocently.

“Something like that,” Tara answered on her behalf with a wink. “But let’s not make Buffy wait any longer. Xander, do you mind helping me getting her into a sitting position? I’m hoping the movement will help wake her up, and besides, I don’t want to try and give her the antidote when she’s lying down and risk her choking.”

Xander struggled with himself for a moment, twisting his neck from side to side and clearing his throat before finally saying, “Yeah, ok, I can help.”

Willow, sensing danger, intervened. “That’s ok, Mr. Tough Guy. I can help Tara,” she gently pushed him away from the edge of the bed where he’d been headed.

“But I can help. I’m stronger than you,” he insisted, flexing his muscles almost as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Willow. Almost.  

Willow raised an eyebrow. “Are you now? I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Mr. Harris.”

Xander took a few steps backwards, hands raised in surrender. “A man can see when he’s been bested. Well, if you ladies don’t need my help, I’m going out for a walk. Clear my head a little. All Buddhism-like."

“I think that’s a good idea,” Tara said with a smile.

He smiled back, albeit faintly, before making a swift exit.

“What’s eating him?” Dawn sniffed, peering out one of the open windows and watching as he withdrew from the front door.

“It’s been a long day for everybody,” Tara explained gently.

She looped one arm under Buffy then looked pointedly at Willow to do the same. “On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!”

The two heaved Buffy into a supported sitting position, her head lolling forward until Tara used her free hand to rest Buffy’s head on her shoulder.

“Hey Buffy,” she said soothingly, patting the side of her face. “Can you wake up for me, Sleeping Beauty?”

“We’ve got some antidote for you! And this time I’m not going to be an idiot and put Spike in charge of giving it you. I can’t say that it tastes any better, but Tara made it instead of me, so prospects are looking good.” Willow patted Buffy’s leg after a long time of receiving no response. “Buffy, can you hear me?”

Buffy jerked violently, startling both Willow and Tara, the latter of whom had to scramble not to drop her in surprise.

Buffy whimpered and twisted in Tara’s arms, a fresh sheen of sweat beading on her skin. “Mom?” she cried out in distress, her voice hoarse and strained, as though she just had swallowed a mouthful of broken glass.

It suddenly became hard to breathe.

Willow found that she had gone completely numb, her lungs burning as she tried to suck in air that was too thick now to swallow.

Tara was the first to recover. “Buffy, it’s us. Me, Dawn, and Willow. We’re all here, and you’re ok now. Are you still seeing things? I think opening your eyes might help.”

Buffy’s eyes cracked open, and she made eye contact with each of them before her eyes rolled back and fell closed. “Eyes . . . not working . . . hard . . . to focus . . . ”

Dawn made a tiny squeak of surprise, tripping as she stumbled forward to the end of the bed. “Buffy, you’re ok. I’m so relieved. Are you in any kind of pain?”

“It’s ok, sweetie. You can keep your eyes closed, and we’ll help you swallow the antidote. Open your mouth, please,” Tara requested.

Buffy swallowed the potion obediently, shifting in her position on the bed. She looked so tired, more tired than Willow had ever seen her before, and she wondered maybe if she'd always had those dark circles under her eyes, the little lines buried in her forehead, and none of them had noticed.

Their Slayer had burnt out, and it wasn’t until all of them were choking on the ashes that any of them noticed the fire. Willow had wondered when this day would come—she had thought about it more than once, dreaded it, pictured even, how it would all play out—but there was a part of her that never believed it would actually happen. How many apocalypses had she lived through now, clawing her way out of a proverbial casket underground, sure as the one Willow had abandoned her in after her resurrection?

"My mom," Buffy said softly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "She was there. I haven't seen her since—since—"

"Just take it easy, ok?" Willow tucked some damp hair between Buffy's ear. "It takes a while for the antidote to work, you should rest in the meantime."

"Will you stay here with me?" Buffy reached out and held on to Willow's hand.

Willow and Tara exchanged glances.

 _It's ok_ , Tara said with her eyes. _It's ok to say no._

Willow looked back to Buffy, then offered her a reassuring smile. "Yeah. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Thank you," Buffy mumbled, her speech slurred as she drifted to unconsciousness.

It wasn't long before her breathing shifted into the telltale pattern of sleep.

"You're a good friend, Will. Strong like an Amazon," Tara said fondly, squeezing her shoulder.

"How long are you gonna stay?" Willow asked shyly.

Tara stood up, stretching. "For as long as you need me. I saw that downstairs could use a good tidying. I take it Dawn ‘forgot’ to do her chores again? I'll be downstairs whenever you're ready."

“Thanks, Tara. For everything.”

Tara stood by the doorframe, smiling. “My pleasure.”

She walked down the stairs, Willow watching her for as long as she was visible. Then Willow turned back to her other friend, whose fingers still rested on her open palm.  


	2. Buffy

_There was no pain, no fear, no doubt…_

It was more than just the absence of the negative. She was swimming through an amniotic sea, assaulted by more variations of goodness than she had ever conceived of when she had been--

Alive? What a paltry, inaccurate word for what that existence had been. _This_ was living. This was more than living, in a swath of warmth that encompassed all others here. Everyone moved as they wished, but every movement somehow enhanced each other’s. She turned to the being to her right, not out of need, just because she could. She opened her mouth to say something,

“Would you like fries with that?” Buffy clapped her hand over her mouth, suddenly shoved into a corporeal body and forced into familiar mechanics.

The customer ran thick fingers through unwashed hair. “Yeah, I guess. Make those double-meat-style fries. Make sure they’re extra crispy,” He added as she punched in numbers on the register, unable to stop the movement. “I’ve taken ‘em back before cuz they’re not crispy enough, and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

Buffy reached down for the extra large soda cup, mumbling while she did so. “Oh, you want crispy? I’ll give you crispy.”

“What was that, Buffy?” Her manager materialized over her shoulder. “Hm? What are you saying to our valued customer? Buffy? Buffy? Buffy? BuffyBuffyBuffyBuffyBuffyBuff--”

“I SAID I’LL GIVE YOU CRISPY!” She grabbed him by his ridiculous striped collar, readying herself to throw him across the counter.

“BUFFY!” Willow yelled at her from behind the greasy customer.

“Will? What are you doing at the Doublemeat Palace?”

“What? You’re _home_. I was checking on you to make sure the antidote was working.” The Doublemeat Palace facade melted away before Buffy’s eyes. Willow’s nervous glance flickered between Buffy and the pillow she was choking. “But if you’re still creating delusions, then maybe we made it wrong--”

“Hey, at least I’m deluded in the correct reality! That’s an improvement, right?” When Willow didn’t laugh, she sighed, sitting back in bed. “Joking, Will. It was just a dream.”

“Well excuse us for not sharing a hearty laugh with an old friend who just tied us up in the basement and tried to murder us.”

“Xander, go help Tara.” Willow snapped at the shadow moping in the doorway.

“With what? We’ve already made the antidote.” He moved forward as if to step into the room, but Willow stood up from the bed with the poised electricity of a cat.

“Let me think… the dishes? Picking the dandruff from your own head? I don’t care what it is, just please do it away from _here_.”

Xander took a long look at the pair of them, these powerful, dangerous and neither particularly prudent nor always aligned women. Then he turned away and they both listened to his footsteps receding down the stairs.

Willow shook her head, shedding that invisible cloak of power as she did so. “Do you remember when that boy summoned Sweet and didn’t tell _any_ of us, right up until Dawn was about to be whisked away to hell? And does he _ever_ get crap from either of us for that shit?”

“Thanks for saving me from the Wrath of Almighty Xander.” Buffy smiled sheepishly at Willow.

Willow sat back down on the edge of the bed. “You know it’s only for a second. He’s probably writing a long-winded disapproving speech right now. I figured it could wait.”

“It’s not as if I don’t deserve it. You almost died because of me.”

“Must be some kind of cosmic balance-y thing:  we bring you to life, you try and kill us.” Willow laughed unconvincingly.

“I think the term you’re looking for is poetic justice.” They were both trying to joke, but the humor had a sharpness to it that made them uncomfortable. Willow didn’t respond to that last remark and, guessing it hit a little too close to home, Buffy spoke into the nervous silence. “Will, can I ask you something?”

Willow played with the comforter’s lining, her eyes ducking Buffy’s. It was a few seconds before she gave her reply. “Of course.”

It was fresh on her mind, the tide of her dream-turned-nightmare just barely beginning to recede from consciousness. But even without the reminder, she remembered. Every second, waking or otherwise. She breathed in, willing the breath to sound measured and not shaky. “Did you know you could bring me back to life? Did you know it would work?” She didn’t quite know what she wanted:  an apology? A reason? A futile conversation? She never knew what she wanted anymore though, and it all seemed to stem from being wrenched from her best dream and thrown into the nightmare reality of the world.

“I didn’t know if it would work. But that didn’t matter. I needed it to.” Willow said as she reached for Buffy’s arm. Buffy jerked it away.

“ _You_ needed it to?” She watched Willow’s face turn cloudy, her lip pout in that frantic way she had when she was backpedaling.

“I-- we-- the world needed--”

“Not the world. That’s not what you said. _You_.” If she’d been looking for closure, what she ran smack into instead was the elephant in the room. Why’d they ever think that singing a song about it had been enough? “I’ve been trying to tell myself this whole time that you were doing what you thought was best, ignoring the part of me that could see your motives for what they were:  selfish.”

Willow recoiled from the word as if it were venom Buffy had spit at her. She stood up, her hands at her sides and her fingers twitching uncontrollably. She constantly fought the urge to give in and do magic, just to feel it, and it was worse when emotion gripped her.

“You’re _kidding._ ” Willow’s lip curled into a disdainful smile. Her cute, typical sweater choice made the dripping sarcasm even more jarring. “How could _you_ of all people accuse me of being selfish? You started disappearing long before you jumped, Buffy. For every time you were there to save the day, there were ten times you didn’t show in the little moments that counted. When Oz left, when Tara-- god, sometimes I feel like I’d be dead or worse if it weren’t for her-- when Dawn was taken, you froze and I had to pull you together. When you died, someone had to take care of what was left of this mess. When I was at the lowest point I’d ever been with my addiction, you blamed me and didn’t even think to see how you could help.” She laughed, startling even herself with the bitterness of it. “I stopped relying on you, on my so-called friends, on _anyone--_ and started taking what I needed instead. So call me selfish if you want. But I learned it from you.”

Willow slumped against the dresser. She didn’t brush at the tears on her cheeks. She just waited for Buffy to react. She wanted her to say sorry and mean it.

The two women looked at each other from across a chasm of blame, neither possessing the equipment to make it to the middle.

Willow’s eyes softened, recognizing the impossibility of resolve. Tucking the hurt away for later (she was doing that a lot lately, and wasn’t exactly looking forward to the avalanche that certainly awaited her), she spread her hands open in a gesture of apology. “But… I’m still here, Buffy. And I want to help you with the stuff you need right now. I owe you that, at least.”

That word, _need_ , stung Buffy with its foreignness. She dared not want, because when she did, it was only to want to die. And if she couldn’t get to want, then she certainly couldn’t understand need. Life was a movie reel and she was passively strapped to a theater chair.

Willow mistook Buffy’s silence for disapproval. “I only mean in a friends helping friends through movie nights and pizza parties kinda way, not in a working my magic mojo kinda way, if that’s what you were worried about. No more magic. Not now. I promised Tara.”

Buffy still stared at Willow, and her eyes were beginning to look all saucer-y and wet.

“Buffy?” Willow prompted, inadvertently getting to the center of Buffy’s muteness and taking a few steps closer to her bed, “what do you need?”

She didn’t know what to say. No one had really asked her since she crawled out of the grave. They’d told her how she had to be, assumed she’d needed various things like space. But they’d never asked and waited for her to come up with an answer. She’d forgotten how to function with needs or desires.

Finally, the tears started falling and she grabbed Willow’s hand. “I need help, Will.”

“Oh, Buffy,” Willow gripped Buffy’s hand in return, her other hand still residually twitching. She hated that even in this moment of her best friend finally reaching out, the thing at the forefront of her mind was magic and fighting the desire to use it. “I-- I can’t even help myself right now.”

“Maybe we’ll be better at helping each other than we’ve been at solving our own problems.” It’s how they had handled things before. Now that it was all so impossibly tangled, would they be able to go back to the way things were?

“I hope so.” Willow’s watery eyes did not smile along with her lips. “I’m game to try if you are.”

~

“So you’re saying you were faking.”

“Yes! Well, no. I mean, it felt fake.”

“You’ve just been hallucinating you were in a bloody mental institution and convinced yourself to kill everyone you hold dear, so I’d say that’s a bit of an understatement, love.”

“No, Spike. Not that part.” The graveyard was quiet tonight. The graveyard had been quiet for several nights now, but there was no guarantee it would stay that way and besides, when he wasn’t actively pining after her, Buffy might admit she’d gotten used to processing with Spike. She thought of the rift still between her and Willow, unspoken and unspeakable.

“Are you talking about the afterward, then? About this, right now? Because maybe we should talk to Willow and Tara about remaking the antidote--”

“Will you stop that and listen to me? I’m fine.” She darted towards a rustling bush, only to be eluded by a rather large rat who ran straight for Spike.

“Eek!”

Buffy smirked silently in the dark.

“That was the rat. Squeaking, I mean. I’m a stinking vampire, I don’t squeak at rats. I don’t squeak _period_.”

“ _Au contraire_ , I think I can testify that on more than a _few_ occasions--”

“Cut the cheeky banter. Get back to the point.”

“Willow and I… we had this whole heart to heart. But it didn’t seem to matter what she said, or what I said. It’s like we weren’t actually saying what mattered. I just want her to admit it, you know?” She rattled the door of the tomb, hoping to scare any nearby vamps. “That bringing me back was wrong.”

“What? Buffy, the magnanimous, wanting to be _right_? I’d never have guessed.”

“Why am I even talking to you?” She turned to berate him, not knowing just how closely he had been following her.

They both froze, her glaring and him looking back with that wounded puppy dog thing he had going for him. “Because I’m the only one who will listen-- _really_ listen-- without judgment. Because I’ll be honest with you. Because there’s a reason you come to me when everything else feels fake, Buffy. Because you want something real.”

“And you think you’re it, don’t you?” She felt her lip curling in disgust. “Forget it, Spike.”

He hadn’t broken eye contact with her, and she was so close that she could practically see the movie reel of memories reflected in his gaze. She hastily backed away, almost tripping over a headstone as she did so.

“Willow wasn’t wrong, you know. I wouldn’t have done what she did. But now that you’re back? I can’t look at you and tell you she was wrong. You’re here. You’re alive.”

“Then why do I feel...nothing? All I want is to die.”

“THAT CAN BE ARRANGED, SLAYER--”

“Cool it, mister. It’s very impolite to eavesdrop.” Buffy deftly threw a stake and the hapless vampire burst into a dusty firework.

“Do you really feel...nothing? Nothing at all?”

Buffy’s blood was hot in her ears, her muscles still clenched in a predatory stance from the kill. It would be so easy to slam him against the mausoleum and just--

“Willow made me realize something today. That I need to start figuring out what it is that I need.”

Spike must have read her body language because he was right there again, she could smell him and his eyes were hungry. “I think I can be of some help with that.” He leaned in, and she quickly sidestepped him to grapple with the vampire who’d been creeping up behind.

After another easy victory, and enough distance between herself and Spike, she resumed their conversation by shaking her head. “No, you can’t, Spike. I know what I need to do, and I’ve got to do it right now.”

She turned and began walking away, calling out over her shoulder, “Kinda early to call it a night, but these vamps are baby food. They’ll wait until tomorrow.”

Spike rolled his eyes and spread his hands in supplication to a god that most definitely was not listening. “Great. You do that, then. Good talk.”

~

“Oh, thank _goodness_ you’re here. I think Manny’s high again and the drive-thru orders have just been piling up.”

“Hi, Lorraine.”

“And don’t think you’ve gotten off the hook just like that. We’re going to have a conversation about company policy and calling in sick to 3 shifts in a row. Especially since it wasn’t even you that called in. Some friend-- Birch? Spruce? I mean for chrissakes, the least she can do is come up with a better fake name than that.”

“Lorraine.”

“I know Manny lights up before he comes in, but I respect that more than ditching the team, Buffy. The only real cure for a hangover is to work it off, you know.”

“Lorraine?”

“And you’re not in uniform. What’s up with that?”

Buffy gave up trying to interject, and instead sheepishly slid her folded outfit, hat on top, across the counter, along with a printed piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Lorraine grabbed the letter with greasy fingers and squinted at it.

“It’s my letter of resignation.”

“But-- but Manny! The drive thru!”

“Don’t take it personally, Lorraine, but I’d prefer being trapped in a hell dimension over working here any day-- and trust me, I’ve seen some hell dimensions that ain’t pretty.”

The cacophony of frying, of complaining customers, of Lorraine’s panic, all softened to a dim, background hum as Buffy turned to walk out of the fast food chain for the last time.

She was listening instead to her own internal satisfaction. She didn’t know what was more pleasant:  the feeling of having the itch at all, or the knowledge that she had most thoroughly scratched it.

It wasn’t a big want. It wasn’t an all-consuming, life-threatening need.

The doorbell jingled behind her, and Buffy smiled.

No. But it was a start.


End file.
